"Better keep away!” he shouted at the dog.
He reached his own house and leaped up the front steps two at a time. He tore the door open. The living room was dark and silent. There was a sudden stir of motion. Shapes untangling themselves, getting quickly up from the couch.
“Verne!” Madge gasped. “What are you doing home so early?”
Verne Haskel threw his briefcase down and dropped his hat and coat over a chair. His lined face was twisted with emotion, pulled out of shape by violent inner forces.
“What in the world!” Madge fluttered, hurrying toward him nervously, smoothing down her lounge pajamas. “Has something happened? I didn’t expect you so—” She broke off, blushing. “I mean, I—”
Paul Tyler strolled leisurely toward Haskel. “Hi there, Verne,” he murmured, embarrassed. “Dropped by to say hello and return a book to your wife.”
Haskel nodded curtly. “Afternoon.” He turned and headed toward the basement door, ignoring the two of them. “I’ll be downstairs.” “But Verne!” Madge protested. “What’s happened?” Verne halted briefly at the door. “I quit my job.”
“You what?”
“I quit my job. I finished Larson off. There won’t be anymore of him.” The basement door slammed.
“Good Lord!” Madge shrieked, clutching at Tyler hysterically. “He’s gone out of his mind!”
Down in the basement, Verne Haskel snapped on the light impatiently. He put on his engineer’s cap and pulled his stool up beside the great plywood table.
What next?
Morris Home Furnishings. The big plush store. Where the clerks all looked down their noses at him.
He rubbed his hands gleefully. No more of them. No more snooty clerks, lifting their eyebrows when he came in. Only hair and bow ties and folded handkerchiefs.
He removed the model of Morris Home Furnishings and disassembled it. He worked feverishly, with frantic haste. Now that he had really begun he wasted no time. A moment later he was glueing two small buildings in its place. Ritz
Shoeshine. Pete’s Bowling Alley.
Haskel giggled excitedly. Fitting extinction for the luxurious, exclusive furniture store. A shoeshine parlor and a bowling alley. Just what it deserved.
The California State Bank. He had always hated the Bank. They had once refused him a loan. He pulled the Bank loose.
Ed Tildon’s mansion. His damn dog. The dog had bit him on the ankle, one afternoon. He ripped the model off. His head spun. He could do anything.
Harrison Appliance. They had sold him a bum radio. Off came Harrison Appliance.
Joe’s Cigar and Smoke Shop. Joe had given him a lead quarter in May, 1949. Off came Joe’s.
The Ink Works. He loathed the smell of ink. Maybe a bread factory, instead. He loved baking bread. Off came the Ink Works.
Elm Street was too dark at night. A couple of times he had stumbled. A few more streetlights were in order.
Not enough bars along High Street. Too many dress shops and expensive hat and fur shops and ladies’ apparel. He ripped a whole handful loose and carried them to the workbench.
At the top of the stairs the door opened slowly. Madge peered down, pale and frightened. “Verne?”
He scowled up impatiently. “What do you want?”
Madge came downstairs hesitantly. Behind her Doctor Tyler followed, suave and handsome in his gray suit. “Verne — is everything all right?”
“Of course.”
“Did—did you really quit your job?”
Haskel nodded. He began to disassemble the Ink Works, ignoring his wife and Doctor Tyler.
“But why?”
Haskel grunted impatiently. “No time.”
Doctor Tyler had begun to look worried. “Do I understand you’re too busy for your job?”
“That’s right.”
“Too busy doing what?” Tyler’s voice rose; he was trembling nervously. “Working down here on this town of yours? Changing things?” “Go away,” Haskel muttered. His deft hands were assembling a lovely little Langendorf Bread Factory. He shaped it with loving care, sprayed it with white paint, brushed a gravel walk and shrubs in front of it. He put it aside and began on a park. A big green park. Woodland had always needed a park. It would go in place of the State Street Hotel.
Tyler pulled Madge away from the table, off in a corner of the basement. “Good God.” He lit a cigarette shakily. The cigarette flipped out of his hands and rolled away. He ignored it and fumbled for another. “You see? You see what he’s doing?”
Madge shook her head mutely. “What is it? I don’t—”
“How long has he been working on this? All his life?”
Madge nodded, white-faced. “Yes, all his life.”
Tyler’s features twisted. “My God, Madge. It’s enough to drive you out of your mind. I can hardly believe it. We’ve got to do something."
“What's happening?” Madge moaned. “What—” “He’s losing himself into it.” Tyler’s face was a mask of incredulous disbelief. “Faster and faster.”
“He’s always come down here,” Madge faltered. “It’s nothing new. He’s always wanted to get away.”
“Yes. Get away." Tyler shuddered, clenched his fists and pulled himself together. He advanced across the basement and stopped by Verne Haskel.
“What do you want?" Haskel muttered, noticing him.